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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323497">Crosswords</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSquared80/pseuds/LSquared80'>LSquared80</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>CSI: Crime Scene Investigation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, GSR - Freeform, Pre and Post Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:14:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSquared80/pseuds/LSquared80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes covering nine years in Grissom and Sara's relationship from his POV.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Grissom/Sara Sidle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Breathless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wanted to use Grissom's interest in crossword puzzles as the basis for a story and decided to challenge myself. Each piece is based on one crossword clue and answer.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>34 across, 10 letters, <i>1960 film; Godard</i></p>
<p>The lecture hall had an ornate ceiling, with gold and red tiles shaped into hexagonal patterns, that looked better suited to a cathedral. Gil Grissom stood on the low stage with his head tilted back. He faced forward to look at a slope of mostly empty chairs stretched out before him until more attendees began to filter in. He acknowledged their presence with a polite nod and smile. There were a few likely students with backpacks. Academics. Nondescript men and women from law enforcement. They filled the back rows and were dispersed throughout the middle. </p>
<p>Gil turned away, shuffling papers on the table. As he rotated to face the audience again, he saw a young woman descending the stairs down the middle of the room. She earned a pleased grin from him when she ventured lower than anyone else had, stopping to claim an aisle seat in the second row. Their eyes locked, and when she smiled broadly, he saw pearly white teeth with a small gap between the front two.  </p>
<p>He lost track of time trying to read her name, occupation, and place of employment on the Forensic Academy Conference-issued badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck. She was dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and a crisp white shirt with barely detectable blue stripes stitched vertically into the fabric, but her ponytail gave her the aura of someone young and ripe for learning.  </p>
<p>The longer Gil spent studying her expressive, brown eyes and the faint smattering of freckles visible where the first three buttons of her shirt were undone, the more he suspected someone had turned the thermostat up. It had become harder to breathe and it was only when a man in the audience pointedly cleared his throat that Gil snapped out of his reverie. He took in the space beyond the young woman and saw a full crowd had bloomed in the seats. He moved to stand behind the podium, adjusted the microphone, and introduced himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fog</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set about a year before Sara goes to Las Vegas.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>4 across, 3 letters, <i>frequent weather condition in San Francisco</i></p><p>He set aside a pile of his own open cases to fly to San Francisco at the behest of Sara Sidle. Gil was genuinely interested in offering his expert testimony in court regarding the lifecycle of blowflies on a dead body where there was a dispute on time of death, but he wouldn’t have been so agreeable if Sara’s supervisor had made the request himself.  </p><p>The fog delayed his flight over an hour but she was waiting for him by baggage claim, wearing a pantsuit and the gap-toothed, coquettish smile that kept him up at night. A pair of sunglasses were hooked around the neckline of her shirt, dragging it down enough to offer a tempting view of the valley of soft skin between her breasts. Gil had the handle of a rolling suitcase in one hand and a garment bag folded over his opposite arm, but he mostly refrained from hugging Sara because he was awkward and afraid of how his body would react to the intimate contact.  </p><p>They walked and talked to her car and she asked if he wanted to check in at the hotel before going to the lab, where a room was set up for him to review the case file and photographs. He briefly flashed to an image of the two of them in a sunlit hotel suite, Sara naked on crisp, white linen. “Let’s go straight to the lab.” </p><p>The fog was still thick over the Golden Gate Bridge and Gil was impressed at how fearlessly she drove through the nearly opaque cloud. He was pleased that she came in and out of the room all day, bringing coffee and her astute observations, and eventually an invitation to dinner.  </p><p>Gil checked into his hotel and showered. She had told him dinner would be “nothing fancy,” and he was glad to have packed a pair of jeans. He met Sara on the sidewalk and she was framed by a pastel sunset and distant wisps of fog. She was wearing denim shorts and a white tank top with a plaid shirt tied around her waist, and he was thrown by miles of bare skin. She’d taken her hair down and the tight curls were a little messy. He had nothing in his hands, so when she gingerly grasped his biceps and bent forward to drop a kiss on his cheek, Gil was defenseless. He blushed and smiled and felt like he imagined a prom king did; lucky to have a beautiful woman on his arm and holding the envy of the men who passed by.  </p><p>Sara ate a piece of sesame broccoli from his plate and he spent the evening in a fog of his own – every sound but her husky voice was muted, he had a hard time thinking straight, and the air was dense everywhere they went.  </p><p>It was dark as they circled back to the hotel. “You have to leave right after court tomorrow?” Sara asked.  </p><p>He nodded.  </p><p>She sighed. “That’s too bad.”  </p><p>Gil held his breath when her nimble hands were suddenly on his chest and Sara pressed her lips to his. Her tongue traced along the seam of his mouth and he opened to her. Despite the heavy-handed garlic in their dinner, she tasted like plum wine and sea salt. His hands grasped her hips beneath the soft fabric of her plaid shirt, hanging open around her torso. She raised her arms to circle around his neck, eliminating any space between their bodies. The movement lifted her tank top and touching a slant of her bare skin above the waistband of her shorts seared Gil’s skin.  </p><p>“You’re not going to invite me up, are you?” Sara asked matter-of-factly.  </p><p>He bit his lip. “I’m not very good at... this.”  </p><p>“I disagree,” she said softly. </p><p>He had at least fifteen years on her but Gil felt like a nervous, fumbling teenaged boy. She was sexy and sure of herself and he was too pragmatic and petrified. “I don’t think... with the job... you never know when-” </p><p>“It’s okay,” Sara said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  </p><p>Gil shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her walk away. She stopped, twisting at the waist to look back at him from the steep incline of the sidewalk. He could smell the fog – damp, a hint of sulfur – but he could still taste Sara and was afraid to open his mouth to say another word and lose her intoxicating flavor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Flirt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Takes place during season 1 after "Unfriendly Skies."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>17 down, 5 letters, <i>heart breaker</i></p><p>The name Ken Fuller came to him at three o’clock in the afternoon when he woke from a fitful sleep. Gil recognized it was wasteful and irrational to be angry at a man he’d never met and a man Sara implied had failed to convince her sex on an airplane was as toe-curling as people made it out to be. But he felt a knot of jealousy in his chest, the same troubling pang he felt when Nick flexed his muscled arms in front of Sara or she and Warrick glared at one another like they had both considered settling their professional differences between the sheets.  </p><p>Catherine was the traditionally beautiful woman at the lab, but her appeal was overt – tight fitting clothes, glamorous hair and makeup. Sara was different and every male in the lab – regardless of sexual orientation – knew they had to earn her laughter and attention. She didn’t flirt to be erotic; it was her way of differentiating between the men who were humorless and cocky (Conrad Ecklie) and the men she deemed smart and savvy enough to befriend (almost everyone else).  </p><p>Once upon a time, Gil was one of those men. She boosted his ego with compliments and asked him to tape her up and to his delight, invaded his personal space. But then his hearing started to go and his hair was graying beyond reproach and he felt his age. Every year of it. He closed himself off – to protect them both professionally and to protect his fragile heart.  </p><p>It had been so easy and pleasant to fall back into the rhythm of flirtation. <i>Cite your source.</i> But it was a momentary lapse on his part and the next day he would sternly point out that she was late turning in her report on the Geary case and he would watch Nick earn a full-bodied laugh from her while Warrick undressed her with his eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nutmeg</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set during the time frame of season 2.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>9 down, 6 letters, <i>ground spice</i></p><p>She brought a sweet potato pie to the lab’s Thanksgiving potluck. Nick accused her of buying it at the store but Gil knew better; the warm, nutty fragrance of nutmeg lingered on her clothes and in her hair. He smelled it when she climbed into the driver’s seat to take him and Warrick to a four-nineteen at The Palms and again, later, when she bent her head over his shoulder to look at what he was seeing under the microscope.  </p><p>It was the reason Gil been pairing her up with everyone but him – she always had a distinct perfume that carved a memory in his mind and haunted him for days and weeks and months after. The sour tang of lemon after he told her to use it in the shower to combat the decomposing body she’d recovered. The earthy odor of sweat and the dusty plaster when she touched his face. Coffee and woodsmoke from the night they spent sitting on crates monitoring the pig. The feminine, sultry perfume she dotted on her pulse points when she let the FBI use her as a decoy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Winter Solstice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set during the time frame of season 3.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>40 across, two words, <i>December event</i></p><p>The owner of a shop selling crystals and incense was robbed and beaten, and to thank Sara for her kindness and dedication to catching the perpetrator, Gypsy gifted the criminalist obsidian and amethyst. They were in the pocket of Sara’s coat and she took them out in the car, holding them on her palm while they waited for the police to clear the scene of a suspected homicide.  </p><p>“What do they mean?” Gil asked, and he was tickled by the way she smiled at his interest.  </p><p>“This one,” she told him, touching the black stone, “is protective. The amethyst is healing.” </p><p>Her words were visible puffs of smoke as she spoke and Gil became aware how cold it was in the Tahoe. He cranked the heat up and said, “I heard her say something about Winter Solstice.” </p><p>Sara nodded. “Gypsy said it holds a powerful energy for regeneration, renewal and self-reflection.” She paused, her eyes widening for a moment. “Almost forgot,” she said, reaching into her other pocket. “She asked me to give this one to you.”  </p><p>Gil reached over and picked up a bright, red-hued crystal from her palm. His breath snagged at the all too brief contact between his skin and hers. </p><p>“Ruby,” she clarified.  </p><p>“What does it mean?” </p><p>Sara shrugged. “She didn’t tell me. Just said to be sure I was the one who gave it to you before the solstice was over.” She rolled her eyes, conveying a mistrust of such beliefs.  </p><p>Later, Gil researched the ruby. <i>Helps restore vitality and energy levels. This can help improve things such as sensuality, sex, and intellect. It’s also said to help bring self-awareness and the realization of truth to one’s mind.</i> He closed his hand around it and felt the sharp edges pierce his skin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Yearn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set during "Invisible Evidence" in season 4.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>56 down, 5 letters, <i>more than want </i></p><p>Gil Grissom was not the kind of man who engaged in sexual activity during working hours – with another person or solo. He would look down on anyone who did and certainly held himself to the highest standard of professionalism. He considered the lab sacrosanct. Indulging in his baser instincts when his attention should be solely on solving a crime would be a low point in his career and life.  </p><p>But then Sara Sidle said, “Pin me down,” and he was a breath away from being pressed against her flat stomach and pert breasts. He could feel her pulse thrumming beneath his fingers and the skin of her long arms looked like it would taste like salt and cream. He felt like she had dressed for work – black jeans and a tank top that elongated her svelte frame and hugged her soft curves – for the sole purpose of torturing and tempting him. His body was humming and all of his blood raced to his groin. Gil was frustrated and relieved when Sara said, “Grissom, um, I, um, wanted to talk to you about something,” and they were dropped back into the reality of the moment. </p><p>He never recovered, though, and heard a raspy chorus of <i>pin me down pin me down pin me down</i> all day. He told Catherine he had a headache and locked himself in his office. He dimmed the lights like a do-not-disturb sign. Gil’s body was flooded with heat and he stalked toward his desk as he wrestled out of his jacket. He sat down and held his face in his hands.  </p><p>He recalled the scent of Sara’s breath, herbaceous from the tea she had been drinking earlier. The fragrance of her hair and clothes and skin surrounded him – soap and salt, lilacs and linen. Gil shivered at the thought of peeling her shirt up and her pants down. Tasting between her legs – the tang of lemons and the sweetness of a ripe apricot.  </p><p>An insistent knock at the door reminded him they were up against a deadline. “I’ll be right out,” he said, willing his body to stop reacting to Sara as, for years, he’d been willing his heart to stop yearning for her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Petrichor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set after "Committed" in season 5.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>3 down, 9 letters, <i>scent produced by rainfall on dry ground</i> </p><p>The image of Adam Trent’s arm clamped across Sara’s chest haunted Gil’s waking thoughts and sporadic sleep. His heart dropped to his stomach every time his mind conjured a different ending, one where Trent slit her throat. He needed to confirm she was well and safe, and when Sara didn’t answer his calls, he drove to her apartment.  </p><p>Gil knocked on the door and waited. He banged the side of his fist on the wood. He pressed his ear to the door, trying to hear footsteps or breathing or any other sign of life. He dialed her again and when she answered on the fourth ring he said, “Sara, let me in.”  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“I’m in the hallway outside your door. Please, let me in.” </p><p>There was a long, probably stunned silence before she said, “I’m not home, Grissom. I’m down the street at The Grove.”  </p><p>Gil retraced his steps and exited the main door to Sara’s building. After several hours of warmer, dry air, it was raining again – a fine mist. He looked in both directions and saw the electric shine of blue letters spelling out the name of the bar to his right. He walked briskly to the door and caught his reflection in the window. His eyes looked wild and the rain glittered on the coarse hair of his beard.  </p><p>The door snapped open, letting out a brief pulse of loud music and the smell of liquor and fried food. Sara looked at him, confused and alarmed. “What are you doing?” </p><p>He shook his head.  </p><p>“I’m not drunk,” she told him, defensive.  </p><p>Gil sighed. “I would understand if you were. But I’m not worried about that.”  </p><p>“I told you I’m fine.”  </p><p>“I’m not here for you,” he whispered, only then realizing his motivation was selfish.  </p><p>Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Grissom?” </p><p>His eyes traced the contours of her face, her luminous skin tinted blue by the bar’s sign and glittering with fine drops of rain. “I can’t sleep,” he confessed. He took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. She startled at the way he brought his hands up to frame her face. “I needed to see you.” </p><p>“Grissom,” she said again. </p><p>The mist graduated to a downpour – violent in the way the drops pelted the tops of their heads and faces and shoulders. They were both saturated by the cold water but neither of them dared to move. “I’m sorry,” Gil whispered, and he hoped she understood that he wasn’t merely apologizing for putting her on the case at Desert State Mental Hospital or leaving her vulnerable to Adam Trent and not being able to open the door any sooner. He was sorry for so much more. For not being capable of loving her before.  </p><p>He pulled her closer and her arms wound around his waist. He captured her lips in a tender but firm kiss, tasting the rainwater and breathing in the earthy, musky scent of the water puddling on the ground.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Oral</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Takes place sometime after "Bite Me" in season 6.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>65 across, 4 letters, <i>a kind of tradition</i></p><p>Gil was disappointed when Sara texted that she wasn’t feeling well and changed her mind about coming over. He offered to bring her tea or soup or stop at the pharmacy, but she turned him down and he received a simple, definitive <i>goodnight</i> in return.  </p><p>He was puzzled when, the next day, she dodged the question of <i>your place or mine</i>. He was downright concerned when they finally had breakfast after shift a few days later and Sara didn’t want to extend the date beyond eating eggs and sharing pancakes. “Are, uh, we okay?” Gil asked, grateful they had gone somewhere closer to Indian Springs than Vegas; he could openly approach the subject of their rather unprofessional relationship without worrying about any ears from the lab overhearing.  </p><p>Sara offered a tight smile. She stabbed a bite of pancake with her fork and said, “I’m just trying not to suffocate you, Gil.”  </p><p>He tilted his head, confused.  </p><p>“The Lester case,” she told him. “In her bedroom. You said maybe they slept separately because she was suffocating him.” </p><p>Gil looked at her a long moment. “And you think I was talking about us?” </p><p>She looked uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. “Yes, I do.”  </p><p>“Sara, honey, it was conjecture on the scene,” he explained softly.  </p><p>“If you say so.”  </p><p>He watched her take a drink of coffee, wrinkle her nose in dissatisfaction, and add a sprinkle of sugar.  </p><p>“You know,” Sara said, pushing the mug away to fold her arms on the table, “I don’t believe you. And I think we should talk about it. We’ve never really put a label on this.” She gestured back and forth between them. “And that was fine at first but now... I need to know if you think we’re a couple or you think we’re casually dating or just fucking around. Because I can tell when I’ve slept over two times in a row that you feel a little crowded. I think you had a mini stroke when you saw some of my things in the medicine cabinet.” </p><p>Gil shook his head. The truth was he’d felt warmth spread across his chest at the sight of her deodorant and a compact and the foil packet of allergy medication she took each day. “No, I... I’m just not used to sharing my space with someone. I’m learning. But I enjoy it. And, for the record, I think we’re a couple.”  </p><p>Sara smiled. She started to speak but stopped when their waitress approached and dropped the bill on the table. Instead she asked for their coffee in to-go cups and a blueberry muffin for the road.  </p><p>He paid and walked with his hand on the small of her back to his car. He opened the door for her and closed it when she’d swung her legs inside. Gil sighed, feeling good that they’d resolved a few days of tension. He winced when he climbed into the driver’s seat and Sara said, “It’s okay, though, if you do need more space.” </p><p>“I don’t,” he said, curt.  </p><p>She reached over and pushed his hand down before he could put the key in the ignition. “It’s difficult for us... because we can’t walk down any old street holding hands. I can’t kiss you whenever the impulse strikes. My place or yours is kind of our only safe option.” </p><p>Gil looked at her and nodded.  </p><p>“Maybe you didn’t mean what you said, but I meant what I said. You don’t have to sleep in the same bed to have sex or romance. I don’t have to stay over every single night and you don’t have to sleep in my bed if you’d rather go home sometimes. But maybe we need to do, I don’t know, more.” </p><p>“What do you have in mind?”  </p><p>Sara grinned. “There’s an oasis about ten miles that way,” she said, pointing.  </p><p>Gil turned the key and fired up the engine. He drove according to her instructions and pulled up alongside a small body of cerulean water surrounded on one side by rock pedestals. It was secluded, far from the road, and he rolled down the windows before turning the engine off. “Shall we finish our coffee?” he asked. </p><p>She nodded and they exited the car, settling down on the ground near the water’s edge. She tore the muffin in half and when her portion was gone, she leaned over to steal a bite of his. He glared at her, stifling a pleased smile. Gil wound his arm around her back and she rested her head on his shoulder. It was all very sweet and romantic, like a date should be.  </p><p>The sweetness gave way to sultry when they climbed back into the car and he looked over to see that she was sitting close to him, leaning over the console.  </p><p>“Put your seat back,” Sara said.  </p><p>He quirked an eyebrow.  </p><p>“Put your seat back, Gilbert.”  </p><p>He felt the flutter in his stomach that happened whenever she called him by his full first name. “What are you doing?” he asked when she reached for his belt buckle, pushing the button to release it.  </p><p>Sara was leaning over the console, her hand warm on his thigh. “I’m showing you that we can be intimate without sharing a bed.” </p><p>“Well, I think we-” </p><p>Her hand moved, rubbing against his crotch.  </p><p>He forgot whatever he was going to say, his hips jerking.  </p><p>Sara popped the button of his pants and the zipper easily slid down as he began to swell beneath the fabric of his boxers. She teased him through the cotton before releasing his cock through the flap at the front of his underwear.  </p><p>“Sara, you-” His gentlemanly refusal died at the back of his throat when she bent down and sucked him between her lips. The hiss of breath between his teeth was all he could manage. Gil watched her bob up and down on his lap and he lovingly stroked his hand along her spine and the curve of her ass.  </p><p>She stopped for a moment to sit up and kiss him as she loosened her pants around her hips. She shoved them down low on her thighs and dove back to his lap, taking him in her mouth.  </p><p>Gil rubbed her backside and between her legs. His own arousal was magnified when she wriggled and moaned, responding to his touch. He had the wicked thought <i>who is being suffocated now</i> but kept it to himself.  </p><p>Afterward, when she wiped a hand across her mouth and he could taste her on his fingers, he found his voice to say, “Sara, I know you were trying to prove a point that we can spend less time together and still be in a satisfying relationship, but... I <i>want</i> to take you home with me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Neruda</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Takes place after "Dead Doll" in season 8.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>21 across, 6 letters, <i>poet; I love you as certain dark things are to be loved</i></p><p>Gil didn’t have the opportunity to be alone with Sara until six hours after they rescued her from the desert. She was being appropriately monitored and tended to by hospital staff. People like Catherine and Nick were well-meaning in their hovering, but he is relieved when the last visitor says goodbye.  </p><p>He sits beside her bed and carefully holds her hand, drawing the pad of his thumb across her bruised and scraped knuckles. Sara has often disparaged what she called bony knuckles and too big of hands, but he thinks she has long, graceful fingers. He bends his head to kiss each one and something cracks open inside him. His eyes well with tears and his shoulders tremble as he strangles the sob in his throat. Gil almost lost Sara and had to contain the depth of his fear and grief to be better equipped to find her.  </p><p>He hears a quiet grunt and lifts his head to see that her eyes are open. She mouths, “Gilbert,” and he shifts to be able to kiss the part of her forehead that is not bruised or bandaged. He kisses the bridge of her nose and finally her lips, gently, and feels her move beneath him.  </p><p>“I love you,” he says, hovering above her mouth. Gil has struggled to say it before, using a poet’s words or his body. She’s come back to him and he can't stop saying it. “I love you, Sara. I love you.”</p>
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